The neighborhood was located in a little triangle formed by the intersection of two major highways. For once, the highway designers had gotten it right, placing the on and off-ramps in such a way that they were both invisible and practically inaudible to the houses beneath.

My friends Holly and Hugh both worked at Intel and had just purchased the house. They jokingly called it Mr. Blandings’ Dream House because of all the money they were having to spend fixing it up. It wasn’t all that bad. A bit outdated, as houses built in the twenties can be, with a bad kitchen and small bathrooms. Holly is a perfectionist and they were planning on being here for a while, so she and Hugh ponied up and it was This Old House all over again. My first visit found the place in utter chaos, with walls ripped open, two-by-fours studded with  bent nails , coffee cups with cigarette butts sitting on the floor– a regular workman’s paradise.

I stayed in a hotel.

Several months later I was in town again and they both insisted I come up to stay with them. My job had not been going well and I could ill afford to spend money, so I agreed. I rented a car at the airport and drove out.

As I pulled in to the driveway I saw that the gardeners were hard at work. Bags of mulch and fertilizer, lengths of irrigation pipe and various tools were distributed about the yard, which looked like the French countryside circa 1916. Trenches and dirt piles were everywhere, and racks of bedding plants were stacked under the eaves of the house. I worried about what I’d find inside.

I needn’t have. The place was immaculate. The lighting was soft and warm, coming from gallery lights hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Interior walls had been moved, creating an elegant space with graceful proportions. The furniture was of superb quality, and beautiful Turkish rugs covered the polished floors. The kitchen was a dream with a Wolf stove and granite counters. I could see they spent a bundle.

They made me welcome and even prepared a dinner in my honor. Afterward I did the dishes, duty of a grateful house guest. As I rinsed basil from the blade of their expensive Sabatier chef’s knife, I noticed that it was quite dull. It seemed criminal. The knife was the best you could get. I checked the rest of the set. Same story.

When I was twelve, my grandfather gave me a twenty-dollar buck knife and showed me how to sharpen it. A dull knife, he said, is the worst thing in the world. It was not only dangerous, it was a symbol of deterioration and decay, of laziness and of incompetence. Sharpening a knife, really sharpening it, was an exercise in both patience and skill. It was easy to do wrong and you could ruin a good blade with carelessness. Still, if you weren’t willing to go the trouble of keeping your knife sharp you shouldn’t own one.

He was a hard man, my grandfather, but he and I must be alike in some way because this lesson rubbed off on a me and I can no easier leave a knife unsharpened than a mother can leave a screaming baby.

So I rummaged around in their professional kitchen until I came up with a whetstone and some mineral oil, and I sharpened all their knives as we played Trivial Pursuit. When I finished, every knife could shave hair off my arm. I wanted to show them how to use the steel for honing, but we agreed that we’d all had too much brandy by that point to avoid a trip to the hospital.

The next morning was Monday. Hugh and Holly were out of the house long before I awoke. As my business in town wasn’t until the evening, I decided to give myself the unheard-of luxury of a slacker’s morning of coffee and the newspaper and perhaps even a bath. Holly left a note saying that the workmen might be around out front and to let them in if they needed to use the phone or toilet.

I ran the hot water into their deep, Japanese-style tub. It was the size of a small cattle tank, with high sides of polished granite and nickel fixtures. It gave me pause to think of the kind of money a married couple without kids had available when they both worked high-paying tech jobs.

As I lay back in the hot water I relaxed for the first time in weeks. My mind unhinged and I thought about pleasant things. Hope began to seep back into me, and I felt that things were going to work out in my favor.

The doorbell rang.

But I didn’t have to get it, did I? In fact, I shouldn’t get it. It rang again. I ignored it, feeling delightfully bad. After a few more furtive rings, the caller went away. I lay back, untroubled.

I saw the bathroom door, which was unlatched, begin to move inward. At first I thought it was one of the cats, but the door stopped in mid swing and the head of a Latin man peeped around the corner. When he saw me his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He vanished. It must be one of the workmen, I thought.

But he hadn’t said anything. Surely he would have said something.

Maybe he didn’t know anybody was home. He certainly seemed surprised at seeing me. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard the workmen, no truck, no talking.

I jumped from the tub and wrapped a towel around my waist, running out into the living room.

There, on the coffee table, was a little pile of my friends’ valuables: camera, camcorder, jewelry box, silver urn. My blood ran cold.

Out front there were flashing lights. I saw that beyond the wreck of the yard  a state trooper had pulled a motorist off the highway and was writing out a ticket.  I ran out, towel and all, and told the cop that I had just been burglarized and that the perpetrator might still be inside. He called for backup, and two minutes later a couple of cop cars screamed up, sirens blaring. They went into the house with guns drawn, just like on TV, me standing there in my bare feet on the dirt holding the towel around my waist like an idiot.

The thief had rung the bell, come around back and slit the screen on the kitchen window, slipping in light as a cat. He quickly found the valuables and was making a final sweep when he discovered me in the tub. Just at that moment, the trooper had pulled up out front with his lights flashing to write the ticket. The would-be thief saw the cop car, panicked and bolted out the back door.

On the deck outside the back door lay the fourteen-inch Sabatier chef’s knife which I had turned into a razor the night before. The cops figured the guy had dropped it as he fled.

I’ve since wondered  if the guy grabbed the knife before he saw me in the bathroom, or after.

#personalessay

Why do you still exist? And who keeps putting you on my doorstep, every 12 months or so?

The internet revolution happened. Clearly you missed it.

I suppose someone, somewhere is making money off you. And clearly someone, somewhere is wasting money on you.

A to Z, we’ve all been the sucker.

Should I dump you in the blue bin, or put you in the bathroom for long visits and the off chance we’ll run out of toilet paper? Ooh, I ’ll leave you here for the birds to build their nests.

The day Waldo Geier’s father was buried in the potter’s field, the old man’s creditors descended on the house in a mob, rushing the door and setting to wrangle with one another over the values of common objects such as chamber pots or pewter spoons. Waldo made himself scarce and set out into the city to seek his fortune.

Waldo Geier thought himself well-attuned to the capricious ways of good fortune, ever aware that it often presented itself in odd ways. He was thus intrigued when he came upon a curious sign hanging over the door of a shop, the gilt letters seeming to glow of their own accord:

M. Augenblick, Photographer

Family Portraits

Memento & Vignette

Waldo Geier stopped and peered through the grimy window. A paper sign leaned against the glass.

Help Wanted– Experienced Photographer’s Assistant. Inquire Within.

Waldo understood none of this, but guessed it was luck tapping him on the shoulder. He strode in, snatching the paper sign and crumpling it into his pocket. An old man hunched over the desk, his threadbare waistcoat looking like a relic from the last age.

“I am here about the job,” Waldo said, his voice excessively loud in the dim room.

“I see,” said the old man. “You have experience with photography?”

“I know everything about it,” Waldo lied. Then, perhaps sensing the improbability of such a statement, added, “that is, almost everything.”

The old man stroked his chin. The sign had been in the window three months and this brash young charlatan was the only person to inquire about the job. There was also the matter of eighty barrels of gallic acid in his cellar, purchased at a discount the year before. It had proven to be defective, the silver liquid congealed into a thick green slime that smelled like a gangrenous limb. Those barrels needed to be moved, and this boy looked strong.

“Excellent,” said the old man. “My name is M. Augenblick. I can pay you a shilling a day.”

“Bed and board included?” said Waldo, instinctively pressing his advantage.

M. Augenblick considered this. “Less sixpence a week, and no suppers.”

Waldo extended his hand, and thus the deal was sealed.

M. Augenblick had never made a better bargain, for Waldo proved to be an enthusiastic and uncomplaining apprentice. He was strong and he was willing. Shrewd, too. He had the wonderful idea to affix printed labels to the barrels and sell the noxious liquid to the local hospital as roborative tincture to cure the yellow pox.

Once the matter of the barrels had been resolved, M. Augenblick’s most ardent desire was to instruct the boy in the finer points of the photographer’s art. He gave him many lectures on the subject, and demonstated the equipment’s various functions.

The trouble was that there was no opportunity to give Waldo practical experience. M. Augenblick’s studio was in a poor neighborhood whose residents could hardly afford food, let alone portraiture. Since he was a portraitist, M. Augenblick’s professional ethics forbade him to make photographs of non-human subjects. They needed a living model.

Several weeks passed without opportunity. Waldo was gowing restless. One evening after polishing the camera’s lens for the thousandth time, he spoke to M. Augenblick.

“Sir,” he said. “It is well known that fortune is bald behind.”

The old man cocked an eye at him. “Are you saying, Waldo, that we must make our own luck?”

“Indeed I am, sir,” said Waldo. “It can’t be worse than waiting for luck to find us.”

“I will take it under consideration, Waldo,” said M Augenblick.

It was the very next evening that a thoroughly intoxicated tramp attempted to urinate in the doorway. As the man fumbled his buttons, M. Augenblick glanced at Waldo. Waldo nodded and sprang through the door. He pulled the staggering beggar inside the studio and forced the astonished man into a heavy oak armchair. M. Augenblick had spent his youth at sea, so it was no matter for him to secure the drunkard to the chair with a length of rope.

The man came up from his stupor to find his hands and feet immobilized. He began to howl, so M. Augenblick poured sulfurous ether onto a rag and bade Waldo hold it firmly to the man’s face. The tramp possessed enormous vigor despite his inebriation and for several anxious minutes writhed like a ferret. At last he slumped into such slack unconsciousness that the ropes alone kept him upright.

M. Augenblick leapt into action. He rummaged his closet and produced a shabby topcoat, a nearly new bowler hat, a crisp white collar with red silk tie. He directed Waldo to dress the unconscious man while he himself arranged the background setting. He fetched various pieces of furniture and knick-knacks until the studio had the appearance of an elegant parlor. He then dragged out braces and racks and attached them to the prostrate model.

Crouching beneath the black velvet hood draped over the camera’s back, he gave direction as he peered through the viewfinder. “Move the left hand up. Good. Now tilt the head. More. Fine.”

The tramp made no noise whatsoever during this ordeal.

“An excellent tableau,” said M. Augenblick, fingering his beard. “But we must do something about the eyes. Closed eyes look most unnatural. They utterly destroy the illusion of life. I once possessed a pair of tinted spectacles, but I have no idea where they might be.”

“Perhaps we can paint his eyelids?” offered Waldo. “So they appear open?”

M. Augenblick saw the sense of this and immediately set to work. Within ten minutes, the tramp looked supernaturally awake, the glaring eyes seeming to jut from the slack face like organ stops.

The old man stepped back, nodded with satisfaction. “This will do nicely.”

After witnessing M. Augenblick repeatedly jab the paintbrush at the tramp’s unflinching eyelids, Waldo was uncomfortably reminded of the morning when he’d found his father’s corpse curled up in bed. He rose and took the man’s wrist, cold as a pickled ham.

“Beg pardon,” said Waldo, “but I think we’ve killed him.”

M. Augenblick took a pair of pincers from the table and clamped them hard on the drunkard’s earlobe. The man did not move. “I believe you are right, Waldo,” he said. “We must work quickly before mortification sets in.”

For the next several hours they exposed dozens of photographic plates of the model in various postures. He was depicted sitting, standing, lounging in bed, reading by the fire, holding a pipe. Waldo discovered the marvelous effect of changing the position of the painted pupils to show different expressions. Pleasure, complacency, curiosity, even rage.

Professionally, M. Augenblick was delighted. He’d never had a model who could be arranged into the most artistic and avant-garde poses, who could hold them as long as necessary until the shutter was released. Flash powder was not required, since the lens might stay open indefinitely.

The old photographer became increasingly bold in his use of natural light, even daring to take several photographs using a single candle as illumination. Through all of this he instructed Waldo in the various techniques, allowing him to operate the camera and even set up some of the tableau.

When they were in the darkroom, the true genius of this method rvealed itself. When M. Augenblick projected the developed plates onto the special photographic paper, the vivacity and clarity of the images stunned him.

“My boy,” he said to Waldo, “I see now that all the limits of photography I have heretofore encountered had nothing to do with the equipment or technique. It has all been the fault of the models. I believe we have invented an entirely new art form.”

Thus, Augenblick & Geier became the most fashionable studio in London for post-mortem photography. Thousands of the recently departed were likewise immortalized in various attitudes of lively repose.

During an epidemic of measles, infants became a specialty. M. Augenblick could usually convince the grieving mother to agree to his stipulation that she also be unconscious while the photograph was taken. “It heightens the effect,” he would say.

Though most of the mothers survived the sittings, M. Augenblick always required payment in advance.

#mostuselessthing